Catching My Wife In The Wild Chapter 2

Saturday morning, five-thirty. The dawn was still just a pale bruise on the eastern horizon.

Hank’s battered white cargo van was idling down at the curb, its faded "Backcountry Media" decal peeling at the corners. The rear bench had been removed to make room for three Pelican flight cases and a flat of bottled water.

I opened the passenger door and climbed in. Hank was chewing down a breakfast sandwich with one hand, his thumb resting casually on the steering wheel.

"Morning, sunshine," he mumbled around a mouthful of egg and bacon.

"Let’s roll."

"Before I put this pig in drive," he said, swallowing hard and cutting the engine to a low rumble, "ask yourself one more time. Are we producing a pilot, or are we staging an ambush?"

I pulled the seatbelt across my chest and clicked it into the buckle, staring straight through the windshield. "Does it matter? Either way, you need clean framing."

Hank let out a heavy sigh, shook his head, and shifted into gear.

Pine Ridge was tucked into a forested canyon forty miles northeast of the city. A semi-primitive camping area, usually quiet on early spring mornings. Campsite Two sat on a natural shelf halfway up the gorge, flanked by a rushing creek on one side and a stand of ancient hemlocks on the other. Open vistas, broad sightlines.

I’d done my homework: cell service there was surprisingly solid, perfect for an uncompressed live-stream uplink.

We arrived at seven-thirty.

The clearing was completely deserted. The mountain air came off the ridge sharp and biting, scented with damp humus, crushed pine needles, and the crisp rush of running water.

"Man, look at this light," Hank said, dragging the first heavy flight case over the bumper and surveying the timberline. "If we were doing a standard shoot, we’d milk three episodes out of this clearing."

I didn't answer. I knelt down in the grass and went to work.

The primary cinema camera went behind a granite outcropping overlooking the entire clearing, catching an elevated, wide-angle establishing shot. The two GoPros were strapped to hemlock trunks at eye level, their cross-angles covering the fire pit and the flattest patch of turf.

The wireless omnidirectional mic was tucked neatly underneath the rough timber picnic table in the center of the site.

Hank watched me run the cables, whistling low under his breath. "Damn, Sam. You’re staging this like a true-crime documentary."

"Gotta make sure we don't miss the b-roll."

By eight-forty, the field studio was hot.

I launched the streaming dashboard on my ruggedized tablet, dialed in the bitrate, but held off on hitting the broadcast toggle.

Current subscriber count: 213.

Two hundred and thirteen followers. Roughly half of them were co-workers, distant cousins, and college buddies.

I held my gaze on that meager little number.

"Pathetic little videos nobody watches."

Let’s see about that.

At nine-fifteen, the low grind of an engine bounced off the canyon walls.

A gleaming white luxury SUV crawled up the switchback, its tires crunching over the gravel before pulling into the staging area just off Campsite Two.

The driver’s door popped open.

Kyle stepped down first. He was clad head-to-toe in brand-new, high-end technical gear - neon lime shell, crisp Gore-Tex pants without a single crease of trail dust, the manufacturer’s tags still dangling from the cuff of his sleeve. His hiking boots were polished to a mirror shine.

Then the passenger door swung open.

Lauren climbed out.

Fitted white tee, cut-off denim shorts, a wide-brim woven straw hat, and designer oversized sunglasses. She had on more foundation and contour than she wore to a Saturday night gallery opening.

She was laughing at something Kyle had said, her voice lilting over the sound of the creek.

Then she lifted her head.

And saw me.

More specifically, she saw me, Hank, and the heavy rig mounted on a tripod pointed directly at her.

The laugh died in her throat.

She froze mid-step, her eyes widening behind the dark lenses of her sunglasses.

I raised a hand, offering a calm, casual wave.

"Lauren?"

I pitched my voice with just the right amount of pleasant, bewildered surprise.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were brunching in the city with the girls."

The silence hung between us for three agonizing beats.

I watched the color drain from her face in real time - flushing pale, snapping red with panic, then settling back into a sickly, chalky gray. Her throat bobbed. Her mouth opened, then clamped shut.

Kyle, on the other hand, was an absolute professional at performing confidence.

He closed the distance in three easy strides, his face splitting into a broad, pearly grin as he extended an open hand.

"Sam! What are the odds, man? You guys up here camping too?"

I took his hand. I squeezed hard enough to make the bones shift slightly under his palm.

His skin was slick with cold sweat.

"Production shoot," I said evenly, letting go and nodding toward the gear. "New live-stream survival show for the channel. What about you two?"

"Lauren mentioned she wanted to try some outdoor wellness glamping, and I had the kit," Kyle replied smoothly, his smile refusing to crack. "Figured I’d offer the transport."

I cut my eyes toward Lauren. She was hovering half a step behind him, her manicured fingers white-knuckled around the strap of her leather tote, her lips pressed into a tight, bloodless line.

"Is that right?" I smiled. "Well, that’s just great. Why don't you join us?"

Lauren finally found her voice, though it was little more than a venomous hiss: "Sam, let me talk to you for a second - "

"Hold that thought," I said, holding up a single finger.

I turned on my heel, walked over to the primary camera, and tapped the touch screen.

The red recording indicator flared to life.

[LIVE]

"Morning, everyone," I said, looking straight down the barrel of the lens with an easy grin. "Welcome to the maiden broadcast of 'Seventy-Two Hours in the Wild.' I’m your host, Sam, coming to you live from Campsite Two at Pine Ridge."

I stepped to the side, gesturing broadly toward the clearing.

"Looks like we’ve got a couple of surprise guest stars joining our broadcast today - my wife, and her gym buddy."

Lauren looked as though she’d just been plunged headfirst through a frozen lake.